


Healing Hands

by Noxbait



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Gen, Healing, Supernatural - Freeform, hurt comfort, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22145899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxbait/pseuds/Noxbait
Summary: Season 10, shortly after "Soul Survivor." Dean has been cured of being a demon, but both brothers discover that true healing is going to take a little longer than they expected.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year and Happy Monday!
> 
> This is a little two-shot story to get the year rolling. Set during the difficult aftermath of Dean being cured from being a demon while he and Sam try to recover from the ordeal.

**Healing Hands**

_Setting: Season Ten, shortly after episode three, "Soul Survivor"_

* * *

It took almost a day and a half for Sam to find his brother.

A day and a half of calling his phone almost hourly. A day and a half of no sleep. No food. A day and a half of living a nightmare.

_Again._

There had been moments in the past day and a half when Sam had truly considered the possibility that he might have lost his mind. Maybe it had all been an illusion. Dream, nightmare, hallucination.

Whatever.

Maybe Dean _had_ smashed that hammer into Sam's skull and this was just his afterlife.

Forever trying to save his brother.

Forever failing.

A day and a half ago - the very morning after he'd cured Dean, settled him in his bedroom, and given him a huge bag of greasy food - Dean had walked out the door. Hadn't said a word. Hadn't left a note this time.

Sam had been hungover and not quick on the uptake or he would have started looking for his brother a helluva lot sooner. Without having a clue that his brother had vanished again, he'd spent the morning huddled over a cup of coffee trying to come to terms with the fact that his brother was no longer a demon.

A day and a half later, he was still trying.

Now, he stood in front of the nondescript motel on the edge of town. In his panicked state, it hadn't occurred to him for far too long to look so close to home. The Impala was parked in front of room number 12 and he was finding it difficult to draw breath.

A day and a half ago, Dean had disappeared yet again from the Bunker and Sam had lost his mind. Disbelief, fear, and anxiety had bubbled into a molten sludge that had nearly drowned him. His hand shook as he tried the door.

Locked.

He used the keycard his FBI badge had procured for him at the front desk.

The door swung open and he was hit by the smell of liquor before he caught sight of his brother, sound asleep on the nearest bed. The panic he'd been experiencing for the past thirty-six hours morphed into something else entirely. It was partially relief and partially unspeakable thankfulness that Dean was alive.

Mostly, though?

Mostly it was anger.

"Dean!" His voice was hoarse because he'd done a lot of shouting during the past thirty-six hours.

Dean sat up, gun in hand and panic written all over his face. He was unsteady and obviously half-asleep and hungover. It took a few seconds, then he lowered the gun.

"Sam? What's...what're you…" his words tangled, slid together. Smacking his lips, he rubbed his eyes, then asked, "What time's it?"

Sam opened his mouth, tried to answer. Tried to come up with something to say. He'd just spent thirty-six hours searching for his brother, terrified out of his mind that the cure hadn't worked after all. Terrified he'd lost his brother again. And here he was, holed up in a motel drinking himself silly.

Sam couldn't think of a single thing to say.

He turned around and walked out of the room, slamming the door as hard as he could on his way out.

* * *

Dean flinched when Sam slammed the door.

He sat there, trying to get his sluggish brain to engage. He'd screwed up. Big time. No doubt about it. He'd just needed...time. And Sam had needed time, too. At least, that was what he'd convinced himself of when he'd left yesterday morning.

The truth was that, even though he'd been human again, the Mark of Cain was like a third degree burn on his arm; painfully reminding him that everything wasn't back to normal. The power still flowed through his body. The _evil_ still fought to consume his every cell. The memory of what that evil had led him to do - what it had made him become - had overwhelmed him to the extent that he'd been terrified to be anywhere near his brother.

There was a hole in the wall made by a hammer he'd aimed at Sam's skull that said he had good reason to be terrified. He hadn't wanted Sam anywhere near him until he could gain some level of control over the curse. Take a few days to get his head screwed on right. A few days to convince himself he was in control. To convince himself he wasn't a danger to his brother.

So he'd let Sam's calls go straight to voicemail. Hadn't looked at his texts. In hindsight, it had been a stupid decision.

The look on Sam's face...Dean's heart sank and he rested his head in his hands. Sam had stood there just inside the door and had looked so near to tears that Dean had almost laughed. It was ridiculous for Sam to be that upset.

Dean didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve Sam's concern. Didn't deserve to have his brother find him. Again. There was no reason for Sam to even _care_ anymore.

But he did.

Dean spent a foolish moment trying to convince himself that maybe Sam had just come to find him to make sure he wasn't going off the rails and turning into a monster again. But that wasn't why Sam had come to find him.

He'd come to find Dean because he was _worried_ about him.

"Damn it," Dean muttered.

Struggling to his feet, he crossed the room and yanked the door open. The afternoon sunlight was blinding and he shielded his eyes, searching the parking lot. Other than the Impala and a blue Saturn at the far end of the lot that had been there when Dean had arrived, the lot was empty.

Sam was already gone.

Dean cursed again, slamming the door then heading for the bathroom. After a cold shower, he was a little more alert and a lot more ashamed. Staring guiltily at his phone, he pulled on fresh clothes. He grabbed his phone and called his brother. Sam didn't pick up when he called - go figure. Dean didn't bother leaving a message.

He threw what little he'd brought with him into his bag and hurried out of the room. After checking out, he hit a gas station for an extra large coffee with plenty of espresso, then hit the road home. The entire drive was spent berating himself and hating himself and trying to figure out how the hell he was going to fix things with his brother.

Greeting card manufacturers didn't exactly make cards saying _I'm sorry for nearly bashing your brains out with a hammer._

Fists tight around the steering wheel, Dean gritted his teeth. Sam had fought so hard to bring him back and Dean was grateful. He really was.

He just wasn't sure he was worth it.

* * *

Sam wasn't exactly calm when he got back to the Bunker, but he was a little less emotional.

He'd spent most of the trip fighting back ridiculous tears and hating himself for being so weak. It had been stupid of him to leave without even attempting to hold a conversation with his brother. But he'd known if he'd started talking right then, he would have lost whatever control he had left. Every bit of what was left of his soul was worn ragged and the emotions were too close to the surface.

By the time he walked into the Bunker he was so tired he couldn't see straight.

The place was a mess. Books and files scattered everywhere. Kitchen piled high with unwashed dishes, trash, and cold coffee. Broken pieces of plaster still on the floor in the hallway along with a hole he hadn't been able to look at let alone patch.

He walked past it all.

His bed was as much a mess as the rest of the Bunker. Wasn't like he'd been sleeping well lately. He shoved a pile of papers and hundred year old books off onto the floor. Gingerly settling himself flat on his back on top of the tangled sheets, he closed his eyes. Couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept more than an hour or two at a time. He doubted he was going to be able to sleep now, but he couldn't handle being upright for even a moment longer.

Sleep didn't come, but he managed to drift into that twilight zone just under awareness and just above sleep.

That's where he was when Dean knocked on his half-opened door.

"Sam?" Dean asked very quietly, like he wasn't completely sure Sam was awake.

Sam debated pretending he was asleep, but what was the point? They couldn't ignore each other for the rest of their lives. He _had_ gone searching for his brother. And Dean had followed him home. He should probably talk to the guy.

"Yeah?" He kept his eyes closed. It would be easier on both of them.

Dean cleared his throat. Shifted his weight. Didn't speak.

It was sad, this uncertainty between them. Sam hadn't intended for this to happen. He'd been so unbelievably relieved when Dean had been back to himself. Had been overjoyed to buy him a burger and give him a six pack. Had wanted to spend the night celebrating, but it had been hard. A lot harder than he'd expected. He wasn't scared of his brother, something he should probably assure Dean of sooner rather than later. But, scared or not, he hadn't had a clue what to do so he'd allowed his brother to eat and recuperate on his own while he'd gone and tried to drown the past few months in a bottle of tequila.

"I'm sorry," Dean finally said, breaking the tense silence.

"It's ok."

"Nothing's ok."

There was so much despair in his tone that Sam struggled up on his good elbow and met his brother's gaze and said, "It _is_ ok."

And it really was. As he said the words, the knot in his chest loosened a little bit.

"I'm still pissed at you for leaving and not answering your phone," Sam said, settling back on the bed and putting his free hand over his eyes. "That was a shitty move."

"Yeah. It was. I'm sorry."

"I know."

Silence fell again, but it wasn't filled with fear or anger or despair.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you ok?"

Sam gave him a thumbs up.

Dean snorted, then cleared his throat. "You, uh...you need anything?"

_A three week nap would be great, thanks._

Sam shook his head, utter exhaustion dragging him down. "I'm just going to...stay here...for awhile."

"Ok. Uh...well, if you need anything, I'll be around."

"Ok."

Dean hovered in the doorway for a bit longer, then walked away.

A little more tension drained out of Sam's body and, had he taken one of the prescription painkillers sitting on the nightstand next to him, he might have been able to fall asleep. Instead, he drifted back into the twilight and decided it would have to be enough.

* * *

It was after seven that evening before Dean saw his brother again.

Since leaving Sam half-asleep in his room, Dean had cleaned up the mess in the hall and patched up the hole in the wall, trying not to think about how it had gotten there. He'd washed all the dishes in the kitchen. Not an exaggeration. He'd washed _all_ the dishes in the kitchen. Sam had used every single item they owned and Dean really wanted to ask why Sam had needed to use the 16 quart stockpot.

Since there had been no food - again, not an exaggeration - he'd left a note taped to Sam's door and made a quick run to the store. He was finishing a sandwich and planning to go try to make sense of the chaos in the library when Sam walked into the kitchen.

"Coffee?" Sam asked, glancing around the kitchen.

"Sit down and I'll grab you a cup," Dean said, getting to his feet and heading for the coffee pot. "I can make you a sandwich."

"Coffee's fine."

Dean bit his lip to keep from saying anything stupid. Or bossy. Given how there had been _no food in the kitchen_ when he'd looked around earlier, he wanted to force his brother to eat. Except he didn't want to _force_ Sam to do anything. So he kept his mouth shut and just gave him a cup of coffee.

"Thanks."

Dean nodded and sat down across from his brother. He returned to what was left of his sandwich and looked everywhere but at Sam.

"I'm not mad at you," Sam said after a moment.

"You sure?" Dean glanced up, trying to smile.

Sam stared at him over his coffee cup for a few seconds, then nodded.

"If you were, I wouldn't blame you."

"Well, I'm not." Sam smiled. It was genuine, but tired. "I'm not scared of you either, so stop looking at me like I'm going to have a nervous breakdown if you sneeze."

"If you were, I wouldn't blame you," Dean repeated, trying to be funny but feeling nothing but anxiety deep in his gut. The Mark on his arm nagged at him like an itch he needed to scratch, but he occupied his fingers by tearing the remains of his sandwich into small pieces.

Sam smiled. He didn't comment, though, just went back to drinking his coffee. Dean finished his sandwich, then got up to wash the plate so he'd have something to do.

Once he'd dried the plate, he turned around and studied the brace on Sam's shoulder. It was more than a simple sling for a sprained wrist or a broken arm. It was a serious injury and he had no clue how Sam had managed to hunt him down. He also had no clue how he was able to get the thing on by himself in the first place.

Clearing his throat, he asked, "How's the shoulder?"

"Sore."

Dean hadn't expected honesty. Frowning, he asked, "You take anything for it?"

"It's not that bad." Sam drained his coffee cup and said, "I'm gonna go work on the files."

And then he was gone.

Staring after him for a few minutes, Dean had to admit things were going a little better than he'd expected. Things were still off - _-_ the Mark on his arm refused to allow him to pretend everything was back to normal - and he _had_ been a demon a few days ago, so it kind of made sense. He debated going to help Sam with the files, but decided against it.

_Small steps. Small steps._

Instead, he went to his room and opened his laptop to see what he'd missed.

He was half-zoned out when he heard the sound of breaking glass. Startling to full awareness, Dean glanced around the room, trying to remember where he was and what was happening. It was possible he'd been more asleep than awake because almost three hours had passed since he'd sat down. Setting the laptop aside, he pushed himself to his feet and went in search of whatever Sam had just broken.

He started with the kitchen, found it empty, and continued on to the library. At first, he didn't see anything, then he caught a glint of glass on the floor and walked around the table.

"You broke one of the lamps?" Dean asked incredulously. "I thought you were rearranging files."

Sam looked up from his position on the floor. "Knocked it over."

Dean narrowed his eyes and then closed the distance between them.

"You're bleeding," he said, heart in his throat at the sight of bright red blood all over the floor. "Where?"

"Hand." Sam shook his head, his left hand fisted and held close to his stomach. "It's fine."

"It's _not_ fine." Dean grabbed his arm to find the source of the blood.

Sam hissed and tried to pull away, but Dean didn't release him. He stared at the slices on his brother's palm and then was dragging him upright and hauling him to the kitchen. Sam protested and muttered the whole way. He was all but tripping over his own feet and Dean could _smell_ the whiskey.

"Since when does rearranging files call for alcoholic assistance," Dean asked, shoving Sam into a seat at the table and yanking a clean dishrag from the drawer.

"Maybe since you took off without a word and left me here wondering what the hell happened to you," Sam spat, his eyes bloodshot but clearly communicating his anger.

"Thought you weren't mad at me." Dean carefully pressed the cloth against the bleeding cuts.

"I'm not mad at you."

Dean raised an eyebrow at the shouted words. "Could've fooled me."

"How could you do that to me?" Sam tried pulling his hand away again. "Leave me here thinking-"

"It wasn't about you." It came out much louder and angrier than Dean had intended, but maybe they both needed a moment to vent their frustrations. "I needed to -"

He cut himself off before he could admit he'd been afraid he still might have been a threat to his brother. Taking a deep breath, he pressed more firmly on the wounds, not out of meanness, but because the bleeding wasn't slowing down.

"I needed a minute, ok?" he said softly. "I needed some time to think."

"And you couldn't do that here?" Sam stopped pulling away and stared at the floor. "If you needed space, I would've left."

"I didn't need you to leave."

"I didn't need you to leave, either." Sam sighed.

Dean closed his eyes for a minute, then shook his head and carefully peeled the rag back from Sam's hand. There were several small, superficial cuts across his fingers and two larger gashes lower on his palm.

For a moment, it was as if they were back in Bobby's house and he was stitching up a similar gash. A gash that he'd showed Sam how to use as a method for grounding himself in reality. Stomach flip-flopping, Dean pressed the cloth back against the wounds and looked up at his brother.

"Sam, did you do this on purpose?" he asked, mouth dry as he stared at his brother's pale face.

"What?" Sam frowned, shaking his head. "No. Why would you…"

His voice trailed off and, drunk or not, realization dawned in his eyes.

Dean held his breath.

"No," Sam said firmly. "It was an accident. Was trying to pick up a file I dropped and bumped the lamp then tried to catch it and lost my balance."

Relief flooding him, Dean nodded. Better a drunk, clumsy brother than one who was doubting reality. He said, "Gonna need stitches."

"Wonderful."

Dean smiled a little. The urge to tease his brother was there, but under the circumstances, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Because less than a week ago he'd been a demon and tried to kill his already injured brother in their own home. Sam was already down an arm and now his good hand was a mess.

"Stay put and I'll grab the kit." Dean wrapped the rag around Sam's hand.

Sam nodded, pressing his hand against the table to hold the rag in place.

Twenty minutes later, hand freshly washed, stitched, and bandaged, Sam was snoring in bed. Having discovered the narcotic painkillers in the bathroom, Dean had given Sam no option but to take two. He'd been out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Dean stood in the doorway watching him sleep for a few minutes, then headed for his own bed. As keyed up as he was, he'd expected to spend the night tossing and turning. Instead, he fell asleep almost as quickly as his brother had.

* * *

The next morning, Sam struggled his way through one of the most frustrating showers of his life, then headed to the kitchen for coffee.

Taking a shower while trying to keep his freshly stitched hand dry would have been frustrating enough, but given how he had limited range of motion with his right arm, it was enough to make him want to punch something.

If he _had_ a hand he could punch with.

In the end, he'd given up trying to wash his hair. He still wasn't supposed to lift his right arm higher than shoulder level and by the time he'd struggled through everything else, washing his hair didn't seem that important anymore. Wasn't like he was planning to go anywhere today, anyway.

Sam's mood lifted dramatically when he smelled fresh coffee in the kitchen. The hangover wasn't terrible, but he didn't feel _good_ and coffee would do wonders for his sluggish brain. At least he could pour a cup of coffee with his stitched up hand even if it hurt like heck to do so.

He sat down at the table and took a sip, then saw the note in the middle of the table.

_Wasn't sure what you'd want to eat, but there's some scrambled eggs in the fridge. I bought some fruit and milk yesterday if you want cereal. I'm working on the car. Holler if you need anything._

The note relaxed him a lot more than the shower had. He finished his cup of coffee before pursuing breakfast. Microwaving a plate of eggs seemed easier than even putting cereal in a bowl. After another cup of coffee and the eggs, the headache had faded a little and he debated his next move.

There was a strong pull to go check on his brother, but he opted to work on the mess in the library. Things were more or less on an even keel and Sam wanted to keep it that way. He didn't want to put any pressure on Dean or make him feel like he was being watched for any errant behavior.

The library looked the same way it had last night. Messy. Dean had cleaned up the broken lamp, though. Sam grimaced as he stared at his left hand. Of all the idiotic things to have done. He sighed and sat down to begin shuffling through the paperwork.

The rest of the day went surprisingly well. Dean appeared at what he deemed appropriate meal times and they ate in easy companionship even if the conversation was still a bit stilted. Other than that, they mostly stayed out of each other's way.

Sam didn't think he needed the space, but he _had_ flinched once when Dean had walked into the room. In all fairness, he'd been half-asleep in front of his laptop and not paying any attention. He probably would have flinched any other day, too, but apparently Dean was still a little sensitive. Sam had assured him, again, that he wasn't afraid of him. Dean had nodded, but not looked convinced.

It was going to take time. That's all there was to it.

The next day was more of the same.

After Dean had made lunch and then found an excuse to disappear yet again, Sam decided something needed to change. The strain was wearing on both of them despite their efforts to act like everything was fine. From the dark circles under his eyes and the fatigue dragging his shoulders down, it didn't seem like Dean had been getting any sleep. At least no quality sleep; if he was even _trying._ Sam hadn't been sleeping great, but at least he was trying.

Sighing, he stared around the library. It was put back together and he'd run out of things he could do. Searching for a case didn't seem feasible or _reasonable_ at this point in the game. With his brother barely comfortable being in the same room with him, there was no chance they were going out on a hunt. Besides, his right arm and left hand were out of commission, and he was completely useless.

He didn't have a clue how they were supposed to come back from something like this. They'd spent most of their lives trying to come back from one crisis or another, but having your brother turn into a demon and then nearly kill you kind of took things to the next level.

They hadn't really talked about it and Sam wasn't sure how to even start the conversation. He was beginning to think he needed to figure it out, though, because nothing was changing. He knew his brother well enough to know Dean was torturing himself over everything that had happened. Despite his efforts to the contrary, Sam had clearly been failing on his mission to reassure his brother that they were ok.

Sure, he had a difficult time walking past that freshly patched hole in the wall.

Yeah, he was having nightmares and flashbacks.

Ok, so maybe he _had_ flinched that one time. But he'd been half-asleep. Really.

He wasn't angry with his brother. Just worried out of his skull.

What if the cure hadn't worked? What if it was only temporary? He couldn't go through it again. He couldn't. Couldn't bear to see his brother become someone he wasn't. And the Mark. It was still there and what the hell were they going to do about _that_?

Fine. He wasn't sleeping any better than his brother was apparently.

Sam turned around and headed for the garage. They'd survived this long because they stuck together even when everyone and everything was trying to pull them apart. There was _no_ way this was going to be the thing that would destroy them. He refused to allow it.

He didn't have a clue what he was going to say when he found his brother, but he was going to find Dean and pull him back from the brink. Even so, he approached the garage quietly. Cautiously. Not because he was scared this would be the time Dean would turn around with black eyes and point a gun at his head. Nope. Not because of that.

The thought sent a chill down his spine and he shook his head to dispel the image.

Taking a deep breath, he peered into the garage.

At first he didn't see his brother. The garage was quiet. No music, no tools clanking under the hood of the Impala, _no hammer pounding into his brain,_ no movement at all. Swallowing hard, he took a step into the garage, wondering if Dean had gone for a walk. No, if he'd gone for a walk, he would have left a note or said something. He'd been pretty careful about being up front with where he was after the fiasco that first day. So he was here somewhere.

Sam frowned, trying to find him. All he had to do was open his mouth and call his brother's name. Why was that so hard to do? Why did his throat feel so tight and his mouth refuse to open? _Why didn't I bring my gun?_ He shook his head, stunned at the thought and hating himself for it. About to back away and give up altogether, he finally caught sight of him.

Dean was at the far end of the garage, back against the wall. Drinking. He might have been working on the Impala at one point, but today it looked like the only thing he was working on was getting drunk.

Turning around, Sam left him alone and wandered back to the library. The library still held no answers so he tried the kitchen. Of course, there were no answers there either. Halfway to his room, though, he had a spark of inspiration.

He went back to the kitchen and dug around for a package of popcorn. Grateful for his brother's commitment to keeping them stocked with snack food, he threw the popcorn into the microwave and grabbed a couple bottles of beer. Once the popcorn was ready, he got everything set up in his room, then went hunting for a DVD. They had a couple movies they'd picked up somewhere along the line but had never gotten around to watching.

Selecting one, he tried to open the shrink-wrapped plastic and gave up in less than a minute. It was too tight around the DVD and too difficult to manage with one arm in a sling and his other hand sore and bandaged. Dropping it next to the TV, he fumbled for his phone and texted his brother.

_You busy?_

Obviously Dean wasn't because he texted back a couple seconds later.

_No. What's up?_

_Need a hand._ Sam smiled at the irony.

_B rite there._

Sam set his phone down, not bothering to tell Dean where he was. It wouldn't take his brother long to find him.

"Sam?"

 _Not long at all._ Sam smiled. He called out, "In my room."

A few seconds later, Dean appeared at the door. He must have been running, jogging at least, because his breath was punching in and out in short bursts and his face was slick with sweat. He'd been drinking heavily which Sam would have known just from looking at him even if he hadn't observed him in the garage earlier. All in all he looked terrible.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, still huffing and puffing. He gave the room an assessing glance. No danger found, he narrowed his eyes and turned his assessment to Sam.

"I never said anything was wrong," Sam said, tapping the DVD. "Can't get it open."

Dean sucked in a huge breath - and really, how fast _had_ he been running? - glancing at the DVD then up again. For a moment, Sam thought (hoped) he was going to get an earful about making Dean think there was something wrong when he was just too much of an invalid to open a package. Then the befuddlement vanished from Dean's face and something else, something more apologetic and humble took over.

"Sure, ok, yeah, I got it."

Sam forced himself not to move when Dean stepped forward. He watched his brother struggle with the stupid plastic wrap for a moment. When it was clear he wasn't getting anywhere either, Sam turned and fished his pocket knife out from under one of the piles of paperwork on his desk. He held it out for his brother.

Dean flinched.

Mouth dry, Sam stared at him. He'd never expected that and he didn't know what to do now. They had a long way to go if they kept jumping every time the other one moved. He was still trying to figure out the right thing to say when Dean cleared his throat.

"Thanks." He took the knife and sliced the plastic open. Once the case was free, he set it and the knife down and turned to leave.

"Hey," Sam said, hating that he didn't have a hand to reach out with to grab his brother. "I've got beer and popcorn. Thought we could watch the movie."

Dean stood frozen in the doorway. Kind of like a trapped rat. Sam held his breath.

_Come on, man, we gotta get past all of this._

"Yeah. ok." Dean nodded, some tension relaxing out of his posture. He even managed a brief smile. "You did say beer, right?"

He was trying to act normal. Trying to be funny.

Sam smiled and said, "I did."

"And popcorn?" Dean asked, putting the DVD into the player while Sam got settled on the bed. "Well, I'm sold."

Once the movie was in, Dean tossed him the remote - unheard of - and accepted a beer. Then he sat down in the hard backed chair rather than on the other side of the bed like he usually did. It stung a little, but at least he'd agreed to watch the movie and hadn't run to the garage to hide again.

As the movie progressed, things got a little better. Dean made some of his usual mouthy comments and they laughed over the hysterical parts and critiqued the stupid parts. It was all a little strained, but they were both making the effort and it was a good step forward. Dean even suggested watching a second movie and popped another bag of popcorn.

Sam fell asleep somewhere toward the end of the second movie and it was when he woke up that the reality of exactly how far they still had to go hit him full strength.

It was the little things, really.

His shoulder was screaming because he should have taken the muscle relaxant and maybe even a painkiller. Usually Dean would ask if he needed anything for the pain.

He'd fallen asleep sitting up. Usually Dean would bully him into lying down before he fell asleep.

He was sprawled on top of the covers and the spare blanket was still in the closet. Usually Dean would throw it over him.

Sam woke up to an empty room and missed his brother.

_to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday!
> 
> Shall we take a peek into the Bunker and see how the boys are doing?

* * *

It had been three days and Sam had been looking more and more like a caveman each day. It wasn't like they had plans to go anywhere, but typically he still at least washed his hair. Except when really sick or dying, he was more put together than he was these days.

"So what's the deal?" Dean finally asked over lunch the third day.

"Deal?" Sam looked up from his BLT in confusion.

"Yeah." Dean waved his hand and stared at Sam's hair. It was messy and obviously hadn't been washed in days. "What's with the wildman hair thing you got goin' on? I know we aren't on a case or anything-"

"I can't wash it," Sam interrupted, his tone mournful and his expression darkening. He glared at his bandaged left hand. "Hard to do things as it is."

Dean nodded, realization dawning. He motioned to Sam's right arm, still tightly protected in the sling.

"Can't really lift it above shoulder level yet." Sam grimaced. He took a deep breath and released it, then added, "I mean, I'm not _supposed_ to."

Which meant he'd _tried_ even though he wasn't supposed to.

"And you can't," Dean filled in the blank.

"And I can't."

"We could cut it off," Dean suggested.

Sam paused mid-bite, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

"Not your arm, dumbass. Your hair." He smiled innocently. "Solve your problem easily."

"I'm not cutting my hair."

"I could-"

" _You're_ not cutting my hair."

Dean shrugged. "You could just go get it washed somewhere."

Sam snorted. "Dude, I'm not going anywhere to have someone wash my hair."

He shook his head, dropping the sandwich on the plate.

It was the third time he'd done that. Dropped his sandwich. Each time he painstakingly repackaged the bacon, lettuce, and tomato before lifting it for another bite. It wasn't the easiest sandwich to hold on a good day; the insides always tried to slide out. But it was proving even more difficult to eat one-handed. Especially when that one hand had limited dexterity.

For future reference, Dean stored away that very obvious fact he'd so blindly missed. No more sandwiches that fell apart easily for the next few days. Sam hadn't offered a word of complaint over anything Dean had made this week. He'd been eating, and _doing,_ everything left-handed. With a left-hand that was basically out of commission.

Shaking his head, Dean said, "I'm sorry."

Sam paused mid-bite again and half his sandwich fell onto the plate. He ignored it and asked, "For what?"

"For everything."

They stared at each other for a long moment and Dean tried to prepare himself for the coming blow. Even though things had been going relatively smoothly, he was waiting for the moment when Sam finally let him have it. When Sam finally called him out for the things he'd done as a demon. The things he'd said. The way he'd nearly killed his own brother with a hammer in their home.

Dean hadn't been joking when he'd asked Cas if Sam wanted a divorce. Truthfully? He'd spent the last three days wondering what was taking Sam so long to kick him out. To say they were done. That he could never be trusted again.

"Dean?"

"What?" He frowned.

"Did you hear a word I just said?"

_Well, no._ Dean shook his head and tried to keep his thoughts in the present.

Sam held his gaze, his sandwich forgotten on his plate, and said, "I _said,_ unless you did something to my laptop or put _Nair_ in my shampoo, which I'm not actually using right now anyway, then you don't have anything to be sorry for."

Dean held his hands up, ready to launch into a list of _everything_ he had to be sorry for.

"Shut up," Sam said, cutting him off before he'd said a single word. "Look, it's in the past, ok? All of it. If we go down this road, we're gonna be sitting here apologizing to each other for the next month."

It wasn't really in the past, though. The Mark was still on his arm and they had no idea how to get it off. It was still a danger; what if it overpowered him? What if he went down that same road again and wound up -

"Dean. You gotta let it go, man." Sam held his gaze. "I have."

He wanted to crawl into a hole. The last thing he deserved was forgiveness, let alone such easy forgiveness. Of course, maybe it _hadn't_ really been that easy. But right now, all he could see was sincerity in Sam's eyes. He meant what he was saying. If Sam could still look him in the eye and forgive him after everything, maybe things weren't as broken as he feared.

So Dean nodded, his throat too tight to allow him to form words.

Sam smiled and went back to repackaging his sandwich.

After a minute, Dean cleared his throat, and said, "I could cut that for you. Into baby-sized bites."

"Thanks, but I don't need baby-sized bites." Sam rolled his eyes and painstakingly lifted his sandwich again.

Dean couldn't help but smile when bacon and tomato spilled out all over Sam's plate again after he had taken a bite. Sam just set it all down and went back to stuffing the filling back inside. Easily eating his own sandwich while watching his brother patiently try to deal with his one-handed with fingers that were cut and sore, Dean wished there was something he could do to help.

He stared at the sling on Sam's other arm and, not for the first time, wanted to ask for more details. Still, he held back.

Asking about what had happened would only bring up memories of when he'd been a demon. For _both_ their sakes, he wasn't eager to revisit that time period. Maybe it meant he was a coward, but he'd just been a demon, so he really wasn't worried about labels at this point.

They had to focus on the future; on moving forward.

"How's your project going?" Sam asked, giving up on the rest of his sandwich.

Clearing his throat, Dean said, "Going well."

And sure, it was going well. Considering all he was doing was puttering with the car or drinking himself senseless, it was going just dandy. But he wasn't ready to let his brother know that.

"Good. That's good." Sam smiled. He got to his feet and put his plate next to the sink. "Thanks for lunch."

"Yeah."

Sam hesitated briefly, then he was gone.

Dean sighed. Another missed opportunity. For what, he wasn't sure, but he'd missed it.

He got up and did the dishes because he didn't know what else to do. Once that menial task was completed, he found his way to the library. Sam had his nose buried in a book as usual, but looked up when Dean walked into the room.

"Hey."

"Hey." Dean leaned a hip against the table. "What's up?"

Sam leaned back in his chair said, "Just compiling a few things I researched while...uh...you know."

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, looking anywhere but at his brother.

"You busy?" Sam asked.

"No. Whatcha need?" Short of becoming a demon again, Dean would do just about anything.

"So there's a file box down in the records room-"

"Which room's that again?"

Sam gave him the directions to the room and which box he needed, then added, "I'd get it myself but…"

He motioned to his shoulder with his cut up hand and smiled sheepishly.

Dean opened his mouth to tease him about it, but came up short. Instead, he managed a smile and said, "I'll go grab it."

"Thanks."

Finding what Sam was apparently now referring to as their "records room" took a little longer than it should have. Sometimes he really thought they should have made a map. They'd lived here for a good two years, though, and it was a little too much on his ego to decide to make a map now.

He found the right file box and was about to head back to the library when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pausing, he rested the file box on one of the ancient rolling desk chairs and pulled out his phone.

_There's actually two boxes. They should be right next to each other._

Dean went back to the place he'd found the first box and easily found the box conveniently labeled #2. The Men of Letters did very few things the simple way. Even if he hadn't recognized Sam's handwriting on the label, he would've known it hadn't been a man of Letters who labeled the box.

He put the box on top of the first one and decided to leave them in the rolling chair and just push it back to the library rather than try to carry both boxes. Of course, it might have been easier to have simply carried the boxes. The back of the chair was loose and all too easily leaned backwards. He'd had a few mini-heart attacks with similar chairs they had in the library. Nothing like feeling as if you were going over backwards to wake you up in a hurry.

He was halfway to his destination when a thought struck him. For a moment, he paused right there in the hall and stared at the chair. He tilted it backwards. And then he couldn't help but smile. It was perfect. It was crazy and probably weird and absolutely _perfect._

Smiling, he grabbed the boxes out of the chair and took them into the library.

"Here ya go."

"Thanks." Sam reached for the first box.

"No problem." Dean brushed his hands off and asked, "You want to go out for steaks tonight?"

"Uh…" Sam was in the middle of unpacking one of the file boxes. "Yeah, I don't think so."

"Why not?" Dean already had a pretty good idea.

Sam shrugged, but his bandaged hand ran through his hair which told Dean everything he already knew. He wasn't planning to leave the Bunker until he could wash his hair and look more presentable.

"Ok, no problem. You need any help with…" Dean waved his hand at the mess all over the table.

"Thanks, but I'm almost finished," Sam said, shuffling papers into piles.

Dean nodded and headed back for the chair he'd left in the hallway.

Time to put his plan into action.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Dean stood back and checked to make sure he had everything he needed.

Towels. Shampoo and conditioner. That stupid chair that tilted backwards too far. Everything set up next to the sink in the kitchen. It wasn't a fancy salon or anything, but they'd made do with less before.

A flutter of nerves began twisting his insides into knots. He took a deep breath and decided Sam laughing at him was probably the worst case scenario.

_We could use a good laugh._

So he took another deep breath and headed back for the library.

Sam looked up from the new mess of files spread across the table when Dean walked into the room. There was a question in his eyes, but no fear or apprehension and Dean's nerves settled somewhat. He took a brief glance at the sling on his brothers arm and the bandages on his other hand. He couldn't do much to make up for everything that had happened since he'd been gone, but he could do this.

"Dean?" Sam asked when he stood there silently for a moment.

"Yeah." He waved a hand. "Come on."

"Where?"

Dean rolled his eyes. Once upon a time, Sam had been eager to follow his directions and moved without questioning anything. Of course, that had been before he'd learned the words _where_ and _why._ And he'd learned those words right after he'd learned _Dean_ and _no_ which meant the last time he'd followed _any_ directions unquestioningly had been when he'd been about eleven months old _._ So Dean really wasn't surprised to be met with instant resistance.

"Kitchen."

"We already ate."

"Will you just come with me?"

Sam huffed as he frowned down at his precious piles and Dean almost grinned because it was so natural, so _normal._ After setting a pen on top of the form he had been looking at, Sam pushed himself upright and waved his hand. Dean turned and headed for the kitchen, crossing his fingers. This was either going to work or it wasn't, but even if all Sam got out of it was a good laugh it was worth it.

The entire trip to the kitchen, Sam kept asking what was going on and Dean kept ignoring him. And then they were in the kitchen and Sam was staring at the arrangement by the sink with utter befuddlement. It was a good sign. He hadn't instantly busted out laughing.

Dean cleared his throat and said, "Sit down."

"What?" Sam looked at him like he was insane.

"You heard me. Stop being so difficult."

"Difficult?" Sam's gaze went back to the chair, then to the towels and shampoo sitting next to the sink. "What are you doing?"

Dean rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I'm doing nothing because you're standing there gumming up the works. So sit your ass down and then I'll wash your hair."

Sam's eyes went comically wide and Dean inwardly laughed. For being so smart and all that, his brother could be pretty slow on the uptake. Sam staring at him like he was crazy was a lot easier to take than Sam staring at him with fear or heartbreak in his eyes. Dean patted the back of the chair.

"Sit down."

At that point, Sam seemed to realize he was actually serious and smiled. "Thanks. Really. But, it's fine."

"It's not fine. You look like Tom Hanks in...what was that movie? The one with the soccer ball?"

"Volleyball."

"Yeah, Wilson!" Dean grinned.

" _Cast Away._ "

"Yeah. That one. You look like him."

"I do not."

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

Sam's expression changed and Dean knew he _had_ looked in a mirror lately and was bothered by what he saw.

Shifting tactics, Dean said, "Look, man, I want a steak tonight and I'm not taking you out in public with your hair looking like that."

"You can get a steak," Sam said, shaking his head. "I'll stay here. My hand isn't so bad now. I won't need the bandages tomorrow and-"

"Sam."

"What?"

"Sit down."

An internal battle was raging and Dean held his breath.

Finally, Sam muttered, "This is stupid," and Dean knew he'd won.

"Just shut up and sit down, will you?" Dean patted the chair again. "You're acting like I'm going to, I don't know, give you a tattoo or something."

Sam snorted and took a step closer.

"I'm just trying to help," Dean said, wishing his voice had sounded just a little steadier.

They stared at each other for a long moment and a thousand things they weren't saying seemed to pass silently between them.

_I'm sorry._

_I know._

_I can't make up for everything I did as a demon._

_You don't have to make up for anything, I'm just glad you're back._

Sam sighed heavily, like he was incredibly inconvenienced, then sat down in the chair.

Turning away to hide his grin, Dean grabbed a towel. Sam was sitting straight-backed in the chair and looked stiff and incredibly uncomfortable. Dean threw the towel over his head, then turned on the water. Sam griped and yanked the towel down, then tried to wrap it around his shoulders. One hand under the water to check temperature, Dean used his other to assist his brother.

Once that task was accomplished, Dean said, "If you think I'm gonna give you a girly head massage, you better be prepared to pay me double."

"I'm not paying you anything at all."

Dean smirked and flicked water at his brother's face. "You're gonna have to lean back unless you just want me to dump a bucket of water straight over your head."

Sam did the complete opposite of leaning back. He pushed himself to his feet and asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want a steak tonight."

"Dean, thanks." Sam smiled. "Really. But you don't have to-"

"You didn't have to look for me and cure me."

His words startled them both.

"Yes, I did," Sam said immediately. "I _wanted_ to."

"Yeah, well I _want_ to do this for you, ok?" Dean patted the back of the chair. "So sit down, will ya?"

They faced off for a long moment, then Sam sat down again.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this wasn't going to be the worst idea ever. He readjusted the towel around Sam's shoulders, noting he was still extremely tense.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, turning back to adjust the water.

"You don't have any scissors, do you?"

Dean snorted. "No, you big baby. I'm not going to cut your hair although I absolutely should."

"You absolutely should _not._ " Sam countered, shifting uncomfortably.

"Stop squirming." Dean flicked more water at his face then said, "You're gonna have to lean back if this is gonna work."

Sam twisted and looked over his shoulder. "This isn't going to work."

"Oh ye of little faith. This is gonna work but you gotta relax. What do you think I'm going to do here? Drop you on the floor?"

"That or drown me." Sam's fingers were tight around the arm of the chair. "This chair doesn't feel safe."

"It's not. It's like a hundred years old. It's a relic. An antique. We sit in these chairs all the time." Dean patted Sam's good shoulder and said, "Lean back."

Sam hesitated, then allowed Dean to guide him toward the sink. Dean had a pile of towels already sitting on the edge of the sink to provide some padding. The height was just about perfect, he noticed with relief. He couldn't help but smile when Sam leaned back. He was still sitting there as tense as if he were leaning backwards over a cliff.

"Alright, I've got the water temperature just right for sensitive babies," Dean said, dripping water straight onto Sam's face. "So don't freak out."

"I'm not going to freak out," Sam said, wiping his hand over his face, "but you better hurry the hell up because I have stuff to do."

"Such as?" Dean asked, gently pouring some water over his brother's hair. It had been decades since he'd last washed Sam's hair but Sam was no less squirmy then he'd been as a five year old. "Hold still."

"Such as trying to deal with-"

"If you say deal with the files I will pour cold water all over you. You have been doing nothing but shifting paper for days now."

Sam huffed, then closed his eyes. "Just hurry up."

Dean frowned.

Maybe touching his brother like this wasn't a good thing. He _had_ swung a hammer at Sam so he couldn't really blame him for not wanting Dean anywhere near his head. Reaching for the bottle of shampoo, he saw Sam white-knuckling the arm of the chair with his stitched hand. His own hands shaking and dripping with shampoo bubbles, Dean fought the urge to run.

Sam had said he wasn't angry; that he'd let the past go. Why did his body language scream discomfort? Sick to his stomach, Dean forced his frozen fingers to move. If Sam wasn't comfortable, if he couldn't handle Dean's touch, if this made things worse, Dean would pack a bag and leave. Where he'd go, he didn't care.

His first tentative contact didn't elicit a flinch. Sam remained tense and unmoving, but he hadn't flinched. For a few seconds, Dean couldn't move. Fingers just barely touching Sam's head, Dean held his breath.

He saw the silver of the hammer. An explosion of blood. Saw his brother's head split open. Saw himself beating Sam to death in the hallway. Felt the power rush through him like the high from a drug.

Blinking back the nightmarish images, he brushed his fingers through Sam's hair. The Mark on his arm was burning, but he bit his lip to distract himself from the unnatural feeling. He started rubbing the shampoo into his brother's hair and the process began unwinding the knot of pressure in his chest. This was who he was; not that evil being with the black eyes. Not some kind of monster that lived to slaughter.

They'd had plenty of fights over the years; some of them particularly vicious. They'd exchanged hateful words and brutal blows. Said and done things they both regretted. He'd nearly killed Sam a few days ago and yet here they were.

Together.

The first time he'd seen his brother, Mom had told him to be gentle. Four year old fingers weren't always particularly gentle, but his had been when he'd reached out and touched his baby brother's head. Even now, he remembered that moment. The way he'd stroked his fingers over soft baby hair, mesmerized by the tiny being that was his little brother. The way Sam had scrunched his face up at the contact like he was about to cry and then hadn't.

He'd relaxed under the touch.

A tear rolled down his cheek when Sam relaxed under his gentle touch now. It had happened just like that; a second before he had been tense and the next he seemed to melt into the chair. Wiping his face on his shoulder, Dean fought to control the emotions flooding him.

They were going to be alright.

Emboldened by Sam's trust, Dean found himself relaxing, too. He'd told Sam he wasn't going to give him a massage, but he did anyway. It was easy and comfortable and obviously Sam wasn't hating it. He was so relaxed that Dean wondered if he might even fall asleep. Smiling to himself, Dean didn't rush the process.

He might have said he was doing this in order to get a steak out of the deal, but he was getting a whole lot more than that.

He was getting his brother back. 

* * *

The water temperature was just right and his brother's hands were gentle, tentative even, at first. Sam would have found the whole thing utterly humiliating if he didn't also find it so incredibly _wonderful_. So yeah, it was embarrassing to have his brother washing his hair. And, admittedly, closing his eyes and allowing Dean this kind of contact after everything they'd recently gone through was a bit stressful.

It wasn't that he didn't trust his brother, because he did. Really, he did. He wasn't afraid of him. He'd _been_ afraid, true. Afraid he wouldn't find his brother. Afraid, once he _had_ found him, that the cure wouldn't work. And then afraid, once the cure had worked, that it wouldn't last. But it _was_ lasting and things were getting back to whatever counted for normal in their lives.

The whole idea of Dean washing his hair had struck him as ridiculous and nothing but a good way for a lot of teasing to ensue. But Dean was serious about it. The past few days Dean had seemed so uncomfortable just to be in the same room with him. And now he was standing here shampooing his hair.

It was surreal.

Surreal, but he couldn't help but appreciate it. His inability to wash his hair, on top of every other challenge that came from two arms out of commission, had been driving him up a wall. Even though he had no plans to go anywhere, it was frustrating. Either Dean had figured that out, or he'd just gotten sick of seeing what a mess his hair was. Regardless, Sam hadn't in a million years expected his brother to offer to wash his hair.

"Wow, I must be doing a great job," Dean remarked. "You look pretty happy."

Sam hadn't even realized he was smiling.

"Water temp ok?"

"Yeah."

"Haven't drowned you yet," Dean said proudly.

"No, you haven't."

"I never drowned you when we were kids, either."

Sam snorted. "We wouldn't be having this conversation if you had."

"You know what I mean." Dean flicked water at his face, then asked, "Shoulder doing ok?"

"Yeah."

"Not a bad position?"

"No."

He wasn't completely comfortable, of course. But he never was these days, even with the painkillers; when he took them. Right now, though, he was as relaxed as he'd been in weeks. Dean was applying just the right pressure in just the right places and the mild headache he'd been suffering from all day was finally easing.

Dean turned the sink on, then started rinsing his hair as he said, "This has been a long week."

"Long summer," Sam corrected, taking a slow, deep breath. He kept his eyes closed because he wasn't sure either of them could handle eye contact right now.

"Yeah." Dean sighed. "It's been a long...everything."

Truer words had seldom been spoken.

Eyes still closed, Sam asked, "How are you?"

He waited for the lie. For the easy quip. But he received a long, thoughtful silence instead. It was a relief, actually. To know his brother was giving the question sincere thought and not simply tossing back a smart-alec reply. After everything they'd just gone through, honesty was appreciated.

Dean cleared his throat, his hands still gentle as he worked. He finally said, "I'm...alright."

Sam believed him.

"What about you?" Dean asked, turning the water off.

"I'm alright." Sam was a little surprised, but it was the truth. He _was_ alright.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Dean said, messing with something on the sink.

Sam waited for a towel to be dropped over his face as an indication Dean was done and he could deal with the rest. Instead, though, Dean's hands were back in his hair, massaging in some conditioner. By now, he didn't have any pride left and was more than content to allow his brother to do whatever he wanted because it felt _amazing._

He was glad his eyes were closed because it made it easier to hold back the tears of relief that threatened to make an appearance.

Despite everything, Dean was still Dean.

Yeah, they had the Mark to deal with and thinking about it was enough to keep Sam up at night. Dean had been a demon and they probably weren't through the fallout from that yet because when in their entire lives had they been that lucky?

But he _wasn't_ a demon anymore. He wasn't wild and hunted; fresh from Purgatory. He wasn't desperate and angry; defensive and hurt after the Trials and Gadreel.

Right now, he was just Sam's big brother and, after the past few years, a quiet moment like this seemed miraculous.

"What are you thinking about?" Dean asked softly, not pausing in his work.

"Nothing."

"Something."

Sam tried to focus on the comforting touch of his brother's hands. Hands that had once lifted weapons against him; had tried to kill him. Right now, it was difficult to believe any of that had ever happened.

"Sammy?"

It was the first time in the past three days he'd said that.

Sam had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat before he could ask, "Yeah?"

"What are you thinking about?"

"Just glad you're ok, man."

Dean was silent for a long moment, then said, "So I'm definitely thinking steaks tonight."

Sam smiled. Leave it to them to completely avoid the hard topics. Denial was one of their strengths after all. So he said, "Steaks sound good."

"You're gonna have a hard time cutting your steak."

"Damn it," Sam muttered. Cutting a steak with a painful, bandaged hand would prove difficult to say the least.

"It's ok," Dean patted his shoulder with a wet hand. "I'll cut it into bite-sized pieces. You can't help it you're a big klutz."

"I am not a klutz."

"You dropped a lamp and sliced your hand open."

"I was drunk," Sam said defensively. "Besides, my center of balance was off because of the sling."

"And that makes you _less_ of a klutz?" Dean laughed.

"Shut up."

"Alright, alright." Dean turned the water on and started rinsing the conditioner out. "I'll compromise."

"How so?"

"We get burgers tonight and hit a movie. Steaks when you aren't incapacitated."

"Deal."

"Excellent." Dean turned the water off. "You've got thirty minutes to make yourself presentable."

The towel was dropped over his face just like he'd been expecting.

Smiling, Sam pulled it off his face and found Dean standing in front of him. His expression was a blend of pride and uncertainty. Pride for thinking of a way to assist and uncertainty as to whether or not he'd succeeded.

Sam sat up carefully and rubbed the towel against his hair then dropped it over the arm of the chair and held out his hand.

Dean raised an eyebrow but didn't move.

"I'm out of working limbs here dude," Sam said, waving his hand. "Get me up from this antique chair before it falls apart."

"How did you manage without me?" Dean teased. He avoided Sam's bandaged hand and instead gently grasped his forearm and pulled him to his feet.

"I didn't," Sam answered completely honestly.

Dean's eyes were filled with regret and pain, but he squeezed Sam's good shoulder and said, "We are definitely going to see a movie with explosions and testosterone."

"No chick flicks?" Sam asked, grinning as drops of water ran down his face and neck from his freshly washed hair.

"No chick flicks." Dean rolled his eyes, amusement shoving the other emotions aside. He looked better than he had in ages. "And I'm not blow drying your hair, princess, so you better get started because I'm not waiting for you. I want my burger."

"I don't blow dry my hair," Sam said, trying to sound more irritated than he was.

He half-listened to his brother's muttering, then looked back at the sink — crowded with bottles and towels and brotherly love — and smiled.

_the end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I loved writing this one and getting to dig deeper into the aftermath of Dean being a demon. They're both awfully resilient, but it couldn't have been easy (or instant) for them to recover after something like that.
> 
> Next up, I'm planning to post another little one-shot from the Cal Leandros world. After that, I'll be back with an addition to my series "Fifty Miles". A tag to A Most Holy Man, from season 13.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! More to come!


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